


Outside Your Castle

by wynnebat



Series: Hell is Other People [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dimension Travel, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Politics, Slow Dancing, Summoned Hero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 11:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: When the Potter twins summon a hero with the power to defeat Voldemort, Harry finds himself in a dimension where his soulmate is alive and well, and unaware of the bond between their souls.





	Outside Your Castle

**Author's Note:**

> Title pulled from Hozier's [From Eden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cI0wUoCLnLk), which I've listened to way too many times now.

Harry wakes to the sensation of being burned alive.

It has been years since he’s truly felt the worst kind of pain, that on the level of the cruciatus or the basilisk’s bite. Years of living in peace have left him unprepared for heat burning through every layer of his skin. It stabs through his bones, heat flaring through to his head with a fervor. Harry can’t breathe, can’t do anything but writhe on the hard surface he’s on as he’s utterly consumed. He doesn’t die, which Harry would’ve almost preferred over the searing pain. As each terrible moment passes, the pain doesn’t fade, but Harry manages to focus enough on his surroundings enough to distract himself.

Screams pierce through to his conscious mind. They aren’t his. Instead, there is a girl kneeling next to him, her face leaning over him. Harry’s eyes are watery and unfocused, but from what he can see and hear of her, he doesn’t recognize her. She wears dark robes, but there is no wand in her hands as the grip at her thighs. Slowly, Harry’s mind begins to process what the girl is saying.

“Please don’t die, Merlin, please don’t die, you can’t die, I’m so sorry—” Her voice is high, panicky.

“Help me,” Harry manages to say, because crying over him will do no good. Even that much is hard to get out.

“Help is coming,” the girl quickly says. “They’ll be here soon, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Harry croaks out.

“It’s all my fault,” the girl says through another sob. “You can’t thank me.”

Harry turns his head from her strangely familiar green eyes. It doesn’t take long to figure out where he is. He knows this courtyard, no matter how long it has been since he stepped foot in it. He’d walked through it so many times. On one memorable occasion, Hermione had punched Draco here. But it makes no sense. This can’t be Hogwarts, not the old Hogwarts, the castle on the edge of the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake. “How?”

The girl’s explanation is even less believable than the sight of Hogwarts in all her glory. “We were trying to summon a hero from another world who had already defeated Voldemort. I thought it would work. I thought we did everything right. But then the flames, they, you arrived on fire and you might still die and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Harry blinks rapidly, trying to make the blurriness fade. He needs to see her face, because despite those green eyes, this girl isn’t Lily. Her hair is dark and her skin clear of freckles. She seems to be in her mid-teens, just old enough to be confident in her skills without catastrophic failures in her past to led her caution. All of this is _insane_. Impossible. “Your name.”

“Hazel Potter,” she replies. “My brother—Heath—he’s the one who’s gone to get Professor Dumbledore. You’ll be okay. You have to be.”

Of course Albus is here. Albus usually stars in the worst of Harry’s dreams, along with everyone else he’s failed to keep alive. Even if this is actually real, it will be a special kind of hell to see the face of his beloved late mentor. Time blurs for a moment as pain overcomes him again. Harry tries to bite down his cries. It’s no good to scare the girl sitting by his side, who’s already terrified and guilt-ridden.

In the distance, a familiar melody calls. Harry tries to lift his head, but it’s no use. He can’t do a thing. He can only wait until Fawkes settles onto his chest, the weight negligible in the face of the rest of Harry’s pain. Fawkes arrives already crying, and glittering tears fall from his eyes and onto Harry’s face. Fawkes is always so beautiful, but the sight of his tears only reminds Harry of the phoenix’s frantic attempts to heal as many as he could in the wake of the final battle against Voldemort. It had been a phyrric victory, as bloody and futile as those in ancient legends, and Fawkes had never been the same in the years afterward.

Harry reaches for him, finding he can again move his throbbing muscles. “Oh, Fawkes,” Harry murmurs, stroking the phoenix’s head. “Don’t cry. It’s hardly more than a scratch.”

The phoenix trills, nudging his head against Harry’s forehead. It could be daunting, having a powerful beak near his vulnerable eyes, but it isn’t. Fawkes is old, and he is kind down to his tail feathers and hollow bones, and he would hardly undo all his hard work by hurting him. Harry closes his eyes, breathes deeply as he listens to the phoenix’s quiet song. The waterfall of tears hits his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. Pain recedes from his body. Harry’s skin, which he had worked so hard not to look at before, unable to bear the sight, is clear of burns. When he has done all he could, Fawkes rests his head under Harry’s chin and allows Harry to hold him to his chest as he carefully sits up. He accepts the hand that reaches out to him. It’s the hand of an old man, but Albus is strong enough to hold him stead as Harry finds his feet again. The girl is gone, as is her brother, who Harry only caught a glimpse of during Fawkes’ healing.

“Despite the fiery welcome, something tells me this isn’t hell,” Harry says, stroking Fawkes’ soft, sunset feathers. Just hours ago, Harry had been thinking about how he could get out of grading papers, but hell, not this way. He steps out of the runic circle drawn over the stones.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Albus tells him. There’s a tired twinkle to his eye as he says, “You’ve come a long way.”

“Were you involved in this plan?” Harry asks. “To go all the way as to summon someone from another dimension to defeat Voldemort?”

A flicker of pain crosses Albus’ face. “I promise you, the only ones involved were the Potter twins. It was a youthful error in judgment, not something meant to harm you. On behalf of my students, I apologize. I will do my best to resolve this situation, but for now, allow me to help you to the hospital wing.”

And Harry follows, though it has been a long time since he put his trust in Albus. A long time since Albus had been alive to plan things, too, but the man is remarkably good at interfering even in death. Harry doesn’t trust him, but he does love the wizened old headmaster. He falls asleep in the hospital wing with Fawkes perched on the bedframe, in a world where nothing at all makes sense. But he is in Hogwarts, and that is enough for him to smile.

*

Even after full a night spent sleeping inside Hogwarts and a morning walking through its halls, Harry cannot overcome his awe of the castle. He finds himself trailing his hands along the stone walls, walking barefoot through the green lawn, sitting on the dock of the Black Lake with his feet in the water and his head turned toward the castle. It’s a magnificent sight, one that Harry hasn’t seen in so long that he’d gotten used to its absence. At twenty-five years old, Harry has lived with the crumbled, all but destroyed version of the castle longer than he’s known there’s such a thing as Hogwarts.

He considers rowing across of the Black Lake to take in the sight of Hogwarts from a distance, but before he can decide if he’d rather strain his muscles or search the library for a rowing spell, he sees Albus approaching. Harry hasn’t seen the headmaster since the evening before, when he was summoned by the two impossible Potters. In the morning, he’d only seen Madam Pomfrey, who fussed over him in that way of hers, filling Harry with nostalgia. Breakfast had been light, and the rest of the morning, Harry only indulged his nostalgia as he reacquainted himself with Hogwarts. Now, Albus approaches him, dressed in unusually somber colors, his robes a midnight blue but with planets and constellations spinning across the cloth.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” Albus says as he sits down next to him on the dock. The headmaster doesn’t go as far as to dip his feet in the water. His long beard flutters in the light late summer breeze. “I trust you are fully healed?”

A smile tugs at Harry’s lips. He can’t even help it. Albus is just so terribly, wonderfully interfering in this world, just as he was in Harry’s own. It must be intrinsic to all Albus Dumbledores, a talent in driving everyone around them around the bend until they find Albus’ ways reassuring instead of irritating. Earlier that day, Madam Pomfrey requested Harry’s name and medical history. Harry gave the former and politely declined the latter. There’s no doubt in Harry’s mind that Albus has already spoken with her.

“Just Harry is fine. And I have,” Harry replies. “The hospital wing beds are just as I remember them from my school days.”

“A deterrent for trouble-making students, I believe,” Albus remarks. “Poppy never does allow me to give my suggestions. I would add a little color to the room if I had my way.”

“Or a lot of color,” Harry says, knowing Albus’ ways all too well. “What is the verdict? When can you send me back?”

Albus strokes his beard, an apologetic look in his eyes. “I have questioned the Potter twins thoroughly and studied the circle they drew and the book they used as a reference—one that I recall going missing from the restricted section last May—but my current research has not turned up a way to return you to your world. It will take me time to locate or perhaps even invent a way to reunite you with your world.”

Albus claims he hadn’t been involved in the act, although Harry wonders if there’s a possibility that knew but chose not to stop the young Order members who had summoned him. Very little goes on in Hogwarts without the headmaster knowing of it

Harry breathes in deeply, breathes out. He’s used to his life exploding into chaos on occasion, but never in this particular way. He’s always been able to at least return home and rely on the aid of his friends. Here, he simply sits next to a man whose other version Harry cared for but couldn’t trust, the only other people he knows are two Potters who caused this in the first place, and whose existence causes a phantom pain in his chest.

“If there even is a way,” Harry says aloud, because it needs saying.

Albus inclines his head. “I am deeply sorry.”

“I know.” He hates feeling helpless, but it is unavoidable. Life will always make him feel that way; all he can do is stand against the wind and make his own way forward. Had he been forewarned, he wouldn’t have agreed to this situation. He has a life in his own world, one life he took so much care in putting together. It has been eight years since the words on his wrist lost their color and Harry has come to terms with it. He’s proud of the progress he’s made. And now he sits is a world where Voldemort breathes and Hogwarts stands, and it leaves him breathless and unsure. He looks out at the Black Lake, a million thoughts in his head. “It’s peaceful here. I wouldn’t have expected that from the urgency the Potter kids must have had to summon me.”

“It’s a different world outside of the safety of Hogwarts,” Albus says. Harry almost expects him to press, but he doesn’t. Albus’ voice has always been so fond, so certain when he speaks of Hogwarts. Harry’s had once been the same. He’s glad that his own Albus hadn’t lived to see the worst of the second wizarding war. For a long while, they simply sit there, two men with the weights of entire worlds on their shoulders. “There are spare rods in Greenhouse 5 if you’d like to go fishing. It’s a fine morning for it.”

Harry swishes his feet through the water, uncurling a strand of moss from his skin. “I considered it, but I rather thought the giant squid would be upset with me.” Although now that he thinks about it, “Maybe I could give it half of my catch as a tribute to it from growing angry.”

“A splendid idea,” Albus remarks. “Do you plan to take one of our rowboats out?”

Harry hums in agreement. “I haven’t used one since I first arrived at Hogwarts as a first year. My rowboat nearly collapsed into the lake; Neville was shaking so hard he nearly tipped us over.”

“You didn’t take part in the setting off ceremony following your graduation?” It’s a subtle, light request for more information, but it is one all the same.

Harry considers ignoring it, but he doesn’t plan to be as silent as a clam until he finds his way back to his own world. As gently as he can make it, Harry says, “No, I didn’t. Hogwarts crumbled before I reached the end of my seventh year.”

“That should be impossible,” Albus says, and his eyes mirror some of the pain that Harry must feel. It is only the idea that shocks and pains the headmaster, but it is horrid enough. He casts his eyes toward the castle. “The loss of Hogwarts is— unimaginable.”

“It was to me, too, before it happened. Now it is simply the way it is. After the castle collapsed, the remaining wards and ambient magic caused the area to become unstable. Experts have told us that the magic will naturally cleanse itself over the next fifty years. Until then, we’ve built another school high in the mountains behind Hogwarts. If you stand from the highest tower, you can see the ruins of the first school. The new one isn’t as good as the old Hogwarts, though we’ve tried our best to make it so.”

“We?” Albus asks as he takes in the information.

“You’re speaking with Professor Potter, actually,” Harry says with some pride. Professor is actually the least of his titles, but it’s one he’s most proud of. “I teach Defense to first through fifth years. Severus handles the NEWT-level students. We also have adult education classes. Hermione is trying to form a wizarding university, but I think that’s still a while off.”

“It sounds like you’ve created something magnificent from the ruins,” Albus tells him. “The spirit of Hogwarts isn’t in the stones. It is in the people willing to open their doors to those who request aid.”

Harry blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes. He hopes Albus doesn’t notice it, but even though Albus looks at him with softness and pride, the headmaster likely notices quite a bit. “We named the new school Hogwarts. None of us could stand to leave its name to survive only in dusty history books. I’ve missed you, Albus.”

“I had wondered,” Albus murmurs.

“Yes. You died during the war. It was—complicated.” Harry sighs, threading his hand through his hair. “Everything was complicated, by the end. I don’t suppose it’s any less so here.” Small and far away, people approach Hogwarts and enter through the doorway closest to the Hogsmeade apparition point. Even from this distance, he can recognize Alastor Moody. “I suppose I’ll have to save the fishing trip for later.”

“I would be happy to join you on it when you go, my dear boy,” Albus says as he stands. “If you would give me an hour? I would like to make sure that the Order is caught up to speed.”

Or rather, a plan of attack without Harry’s presence. Not that Harry expects an actual attack, but he knows the Order will not be willing to simply allow him to do as he wishes. It’s a rather good thing that Harry is no longer a boy, and no longer lacking in power.

He wonders what decision the Order will come to before Harry walks into the room. It’s unlikely that anyone knows who this supposed savior is; the teenagers summoned him in the dark of night and had no reason to know him. Albus has more reason to keep it secret than not. James and Lily, who are alive in this dimension, will be able to come to a decision on how to deal with the situation without their son’s face looking back at them. It’s more ruthless, but in a way Harry thinks it’s kinder this way.

“Ever the leader of the light,” Harry says with a smile. “Albus, no matter what you decide, I will make my own choices as to whether and how I fight him.”

“I understand,” Albus replies with an incline of his head. “I would expect no less from you.”

And then he is gone, and Harry is alone again. Albus is the only one he has spoken with in this dimension, except for the teenagers who summoned him last night and then immediately panicked about the ritual working, and Poppy, whose focus had been his health. Harry thinks he was definitely much less troublesome when he was a teenager, even if some might disagree. For a while, he watches the giant squid rise to the surface to sunbathe, its one large eye closed and tentacles relaxed. Harry does the same, lying back on the sun-warmed wooden dock, hands behind his head, his feet still dangling in the cool water. Eyes closed, he lets time pass. His wrist tingles from beneath its band. It’s psychosomatic, as the words on his wrist have been black for years, but it’s nice to pretend. This Voldemort is not Harry’s, but it would be something to see him again. Something so painful and yet heartbreakingly wonderful.

It strikes him that there may be another young man joining the Order in their meeting, Harry himself through a skewed mirror. Or maybe not. It’s rather uncomfortable to imagine another version of himself in any situation. Harry isn’t so arrogant as to think the universe revolves around him, but the thought of being written out of existence leaves him cold. The thought of a version of himself lying in a grave isn’t much better, nor a Harry who’s made a different mark on this world.

A Harry on whose wrist blooms a script in Voldemort’s own hand. Perhaps in red, perhaps in blue, or whatever color Voldemort’s eyes bear in this world. There’s no other way it could be; Harry cannot imagine a world where Harry Potter and Voldemort are not intrinsically tied together. The thought sends a pang of loneliness through his heart. His own Voldemort had been nothing more or less than a monster, but that hasn’t stopped Harry from wearing a mourning band these eight long years.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://crownwithoutstones.tumblr.com/).


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